


My Father's Evil

by literati42



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Ace Malcolm, Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Exorcisms, Gen, Horror, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Mental Health Issues, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25093267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literati42/pseuds/literati42
Summary: An exorcism gone wrong or a creative way to murder? Malcolm Bright has to figure that out when a case brings him back in contact with the priest who has been taking Milton family confessions for decades. The murder is not the only devil the priest claims is hanging around, when one look at Malcolm makes him think another exorcism is in order.By request from HoneyMayBee and for the Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Buried Alive
Comments: 36
Kudos: 74





	1. Our Father

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HoneyMayBee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoneyMayBee/gifts).



> My first horror story! I hope you all enjoy
> 
> Please come join me on twitter @themythofpsyche and on tumblr @literati42
> 
> This is for HoneyMayBee who requested an exorcism. There were more detail to that request but I'll keep them between us...they would be quite the spoiler!

Bright banged his fist against the lid of the coffin, continuing even after his knuckles split. Blood ran down his arms. A scream ripped from his throat violently even as he knew the sound was stealing what air he had left. He screamed again.

No one would hear him. This was where he ended.

**24 Hours earlier**

Bright stood out on the sidewalk, fidgeting in the cold as he stared up at the familiar old church. He remembered it with its arched steeple and stained glass windows. It was one of the images that came to him sometimes when he remembered his father’s trial.

“A literal demon in our city…” the priest said on the news that day. Bright shook his head, stretching his fingers to try and work the tension out of them.

“You good?” Dani asked, eyebrow raised.

“I’ve been here before.”

She glanced over at him, “I didn’t take you for the praying kind.”

“I’m not,” he replied, “But the Milton’s have a pew near the front.”

Dani met JT’s eye for a second, then glanced back at him. “Your grandparents?”

He nodded without taking his eyes off the building. “This is the church my parents got married in. Believe me, the priest that officiated had some interesting words about my father after he got arrested.”

_“A literal devil.”_ The words floated through Malcolm’s mind again. He pulled his coat tighter. The air seemed to have cooled around him at the memory.

“Your grandparents still attend?”

“Wouldn’t know,” Bright replied, “They disowned us the day my father got arrested.” He cut off the conversation with a motion of his hands, “So, are we going in?”

Bright started out before they answered. He did not want to see the look Dani and JT would exchange again. He was on edge enough without feeling like they were watching his every move the way they always did when the cases ran up against his family history. He set his jaw.

Malcolm Bright, formerly, Malcolm Milton Whitly, had not expected this side of his family to come up in a murder investigation.

He saw Gil at the door of the church and slowed his steps. “Kid, you look…”

“Determined? Confident? Full of years of education that will provide you with invaluable information to break your case?”

“Shaken,” Gil said. “The Miltons aren’t here.”

“Yeah,” Bright said as he ducked under the yellow caution tape and headed into the echoing halls of the church, “But they were.” Gil cupped the back of his neck briefly and started leading them. They walked down the aisle, three detectives and a profiler, headed toward a door in the back.

“Edrisa’s with the body in the basement.”

“The basement of the spooky church?” JT asked, “What could go wrong.” Bright saw his eyes go to the stained glass. They looked pretty until you started processing the images of people being martyred in horrible ways. Subtle though there were, there was something ominous in being surrounded by images of violent death presented in multicolored 2D.

Malcolm went ahead of Gil, ready to be back in his comfort zone. The sanctuary of the church reminded him of the priest. Of his grandparents. Of his past. The crime scene was where he felt at home.

The basement of the church was not as JT implied, something out of a horror movie. Generally, the space was used for potlucks and baby showers. Then Bright turned the corner and saw Edrisa and her team. He took it all back. The rest of the basement was Sunday morning luncheon. This back room was the horror scene.

A woman lay in the center of the space. She wore a white lacy dress from a different era, but she was young. Maybe in her early twenties, with short cut black hair. A knife was plunged directly into her heart, deep crimson staining the front of her white dress and running down onto the floor. Bruises and injuries covered her skin. The most notable was a cross symbol branded onto her forearm. 

Bright leaned over the body, “This looks like…”

Edrisa looked up at him, a smile spreading over her face.

“An exorcism gone wrong,” they said in unison.

“I know!” Edrisa said, standing, “Can you believe it!” She reached over and slapped Bright’s arm, “Our first exorcism case together.”

“That improved his mood,” JT said dryly.

Bright glanced up at him, smiling for a moment. Then his smile fell. Over JT’s shoulder, he saw the priest come around the corner. He wielded the robes around him with emphasis, using them like Dracula would his cape. The priest had grown old, older, in the years that passed since Malcolm last saw him, and he wore each line on his face like an insult, each wrinkle hinting at his perpetual frown. “Malcolm Whitly,” he said, his voice a deep baritone of hate. Bright realized for all the impression this man had left on him, he had left an equally lasting impression in return. Bright straightened up. He needed the height he had. Father Rinehart was an imposing man, taller than he had any right to be, and Malcolm was unwilling to be smaller than necessary around him.

“Father Rinehart,” Bright said.

“How dare you desecrate the hallowed halls of this cathedral,” the man said, stepping into Malcolm’s airspace. His eyes bored into the profiler. “Your father’s evil hangs like a shawl around you.”

Then JT was there, stepping between them like he would any suspect. A strong suggestion he move away from their profiler. Bright felt Gil’s presence at his side, knew he would be glaring, but Bright could not look away from the priest’s dark eyes. In return, Rinehart moved back at JT’s insistence without once breaking eye contact.

“The evil in you pollutes those around you. I see it in them.” He pointed a finger to Gil, Dani, JT, and Edrisa. “I see your evil in them.”

“That’s enough,” Gil growled. Malcolm watched his surrogate father step between them. As if he could block the force of those words.

“Hey,” JT said. He did not know when the man ended up beside him, but when he looked over, JT was right at his shoulder. The other man dropped his voice so only Bright could hear, “Let’s take a walk.”

“I don’t need…” Bright tried to say, his voice shaking as it exited his throat. _Literal devil. Your father’s evil around you_. He felt the words deep in his bones.

“Bright?” JT was speaking, speaking right beside him, but he sounded far away. His words did not pierce through him the way the memory of the priest’s words did.

He felt JT’s hand on his shoulder, but somehow the sensation felt far away. Bright knew he was moving or being moved. He was dimly aware of going up the stairs, down the aisle, toward the heavy, wooden doors. Bright’s vision tunneled to only the spaces right in front of him.

Then they were outside, the sunlight assaulting his eyes.

Bright sank to the concrete stairs.

“Breathe, breathe, man,” JT said, coming down beside him. Bright closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sun. “You’re having a panic attack.”

A panic attack. He knew that, somewhere in his mind. Bright knew panic attacks. They were his constant companion for the last twenty years. He knew to do box breath, to ground himself. Bright knew all of it, but in that moment the priest’s words had stolen all of that out of him.

_Your father’s evil._

Bright closed his eyes. He felt those words slid into his body, creep onto his bones, and write themselves there—nestled against the other ones, from all those years ago. _Literal demon._


	2. Crazy as Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! As always, this story is for you May. And this week's update is dedicated to you as well, Sab!
> 
> I hope you enjoy :)

Malcolm Bright heard the dirt hitting the top of the coffin. It was the steady rhythm of the sound that made him imagine the six feet of empty air above him slowly filling up. Shovel penetrating the dirt, scooping, lifting, and then the thud as it fell to the coffin lid. Into the dirt, scoop, lift, thud, repeat. The sound pounded into his head with a maddening consistency. He could picture the dirt, getting higher and higher. Bright shook his head, trying to rid himself of the image, but he could not rid himself of the rhythmic sound.

He screamed into the darkness, knowing _they_ could hear him.

**19 Hours Earlier**

Sleep was not going to come. Bright unfastened the cuffs and jerked his wrists free. He stumbled out of bed. His body felt agitated like every nerve was firing at once. Bright flexed and unflexed his hands. He realized with a curse that in his desire to escape the priest and the thoughts that came with him, Bright never took his medication. Of course. If he took it now, his rhythm would be thrown off. If he did not take it, things would just get worse.

Bright walked into the kitchen, flicking on the light as he padded barefoot toward the counter. He stopped, hand still on the light switch, and blinked. When he expected no one but Gil to come over, Bright left his line of five pill bottles out on the counter. Patterns helped Bright keep everything going. He would walk to the line of pills, uncap the bottle and take one from each down the row. The consistency kept everything from spiraling out.

He frowned. One. Two. Three. Four.

The profiler walked over and looked around the counter, peering at the floor to see if one of the bottles rolled off. Nothing. “What the hell?” Bright tried to picture that morning. “Maybe I…” he started back toward the bedroom and checked the bedside table. Nothing. “What the hell?” Bright did not understand it. He was not distracted until after he saw Father Rinehart, so why would he have done something unusual with the pill bottle when he took it that morning? Bright shook his head and walked back to the kitchen. He froze.

One. Two. Three.

Bright felt cold shoot through his body. He looked around quickly, backing toward his bed room. He turned and ran for it, grabbing his phone off the bedside table and then booking it toward the axes on his walls. He clicked his phone. Dead. Cursing, Bright threw it at the couch and grabbed an ax from the wall display. Bright turned. “I know you’re here,” he said, not knowing at all who it could be.

“Bright?”

Malcolm whipped around, eyes wide. JT stumbled back, hands up.

“Damn, want to watch that thing? I know how you are with axes around people’s arms.”

“JT?” Bright lowered the weapon, “What…did you break into my place?”

“Dude, you left your door wide open,” JT said. He squinted at the profiler. JT drew his gun, “You didn’t leave your door open?”

“No,” Bright replied, JT stepped in front of him. “Someone has been moving stuff in my apartment tonight.” As he spoke, they moved together, checking the space over slowly, heading back toward his bed room, Bright with his ax, and JT with his gun drawn.

The power went off, plunging them into near darkness, the room now lit only with light that came in from the street outside.

“JT?” Bright asked into the darkness. Thud. He heard a sound like a body hitting the floor beside him. “JT!” Bright’s knuckles turned white around the handle of the ax, but whatever—no, he insisted inside his head, whoever—was in the apartment with him was in the darkest part of the room, untouched by the dim light from outside. “Who are you?” he asked.

The lights came back on.

Standing in a semi-circle around him were six people in long dark cloaks, hoods pulled down to cover their faces. He saw JT at his feet, unconscious, he hoped. “Who the hell are you!” he called. He switched his grip on the ax, ready to swing.

Something cold touched the back of his neck.

For a second, Malcolm would have sworn it was just a hand. Then numbness spread out from the spot. In a blink, he felt nothing. In another blink, his sight went. He was falling. Consciousness fled before he hit the ground.

_-_-_

Bright’s eyes fluttered open, once, twice, before the room started to come into focus. Everything was sideways. No, he realized as thoughts fought their way through his foggy mind. He was on his side. As awareness slowly returned, Malcolm sensed the numbness still in his body. He cursed, straining to move his fingers, his legs. Anything. Bright felt his breath speeding up. No. No. Nononono. The word ran together as he screamed it in his mind, incapable of making a sound.

“Bright? Dammit, breathe. You’re gonna hyperventilate.” JT’s voice. Bright remembered the detective on the floor at his feet. Relief hit him in a wave so intense it knocked him out of his panic. JT was alive. “Good,” said JT, somewhere behind him. “That’s it. Can you move?”

No, Bright wanted to say. His silence was enough of an answer because JT went on.

“Yeah, took a while to fade out of me too. I don’t even know how they did it. One minute I was standing and the next this damn wave of cold.”

Malcolm felt his frustration intensify. Not answering felt like torture. Bright realized he had to stop focusing on it. Trying to will whatever drug they gave him out of his body was not helping anything. He turned his attention to the room he could see. The concrete floors and white plaster walls gave nothing away. There were no windows, the room lit only by one bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. 

Bright felt his fingers flex and unflex. He tried again to force out words, “Cloaks,” he attempted to say, but the word came out as a rasp.

“What?” JT asked.

“Cl…cloaks,” Bright forced out.

“That doesn’t make sense, but when do you ever,” JT said, then “You know, this may be the longest you’ve been quiet since I met you.”

Bright let out a moan, but with it, feeling slowly began to creep through him. “Fu…”

“What?”

“Fuck you.”

JT let out a bare laugh. Malcolm slowly moved his arm, lifting it in front of his face. It felt like moving through water, but at least it moved. Slowly, he pushed himself, rolling over until he was on his other side. He saw JT, sitting against the other plain wall, looking unharmed.

“You good?” JT asked.

Bright shook his head. Even though he stopped moving, some part of him felt like he was still rolling. He closed his eyes, but the spinning continued behind his eyelids.

“It wears off.”

Malcolm rolled onto his back and let the world spin.

“The men with cloaks?” he asked then.

“What men with cloaks?” JT asked, “Did you see who took us?”

“Five men, black cloaks. Like…like a cult in a movie.” Bright opened his eyes and watched the bare lightbulb swing back and forth.

“Great, we’ve been kidnapped by drama queens.”

“How long till the room stopped spinning?”

“The room is spinning?”

“Bit,” Bright replied.

“I just felt numb when I woke up, no spinning,” JT’s voice sounded serious. Not dry and sarcastic, serious. That was never a good sign, Bright realized. “Maybe whatever they gave you is reacting with your medications?”

“I didn’t take them,” Bright said, “They stole them…” He opened his eyes, turning his head to look at JT. He saw the lines of worry forming around the other man’s eyes.

“Look, your…whatever is not my business usually,” JT said, “But we’re trapped down here together so, how long before you go into withdrawal, man?”

“I…don’t know,” Bright replied.

“Seems like the kind of thing your doctor should tell you.”  
“I’m…on a few different things,” Bright replied. He looked away. He did not want to watch JT react. “I know all the individual periods of withdrawal, but when mixed together it’s…anyone’s guess.” When JT was silent, Bright finally forced himself to look at him. He could not read the detective’s face. “Wondering how much of a psycho I’ll be without the meds?”

“I don’t think you’re psycho,” JT replied, “Look, you’re crazy, but that’s not about your meds. Or your handshaking or going to therapy and shit. That’s real shit. When I say you’re crazy, it’s because you’re reckless as hell, not because you take meds.”

Bright frowned.

JT let out a breath, his eyes going to the ceiling, “I took antidepressants when I came back from overseas. For years. I know what it felt like if I missed a dose.” JT kept his eyes firmly focused upward as he spoke, “I call you crazy when you don’t take care of yourself. But the meds? That is you taking care of yourself.”

Bright found himself unable to speak, not because of whatever he was dosed with, but because after months of working with the detective, he still found himself surprised.

Then the door swung open.


	3. Unwanted Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! A short chapter this week, but don't worry...there's plenty of angst
> 
> As always, you can follow me @themythofpsyche on twitter

Malcolm Bright realized he was going to die, and he would never know if JT made it. He lowered his hands from the coffin lid as he felt the shaking start again. Maybe he did enough to help JT get away. Maybe the detective would be safe. That would be enough, he thought as he felt the tightness growing in his chest. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about suffocating.

**18 and 46 minutes hours earlier**

“Father Rinehart?” Bright said, blinking up at the figure in the doorway. “Isn’t this taking your priestly duties a little far?”

“The spirit of disrespect is as strong in you as ever,” Rinehart said, stepping closer. He kneeled down. For a man that old, he was surprisingly agile.

“Don’t touch him,” JT growled.

Father Rinehart raised an eyebrow, focusing on JT. “You were never part of our intention. You can still save yourself.”

“I’m beyond help, though, right?” Bright said, eyes flashing. He wished he had full control of his body back so that he could get off the floor, but Bright channeled his energy into glaring up at the man instead.

“Possibly, child,” Father Rinehart said, “But we will fight for your soul.”

“Since you believe in it, I hope it’s particularly painful when I tell you to go to hell,” Bright replied.

“The darkness has such a hold on you,” Rinehart said. He grabbed Bright’s chin and tilted his face up. Bright jerked away from his touch. “The medication is still in you. We can do nothing until it’s out. It distracts from the real problem.”

“The real problem being mental illness?” Bright replied.

“No, the demon your father invited into your family.”

“You can’t be serious,” JT said, “You think he has a literal demon in him?”

“No,” Rinehart replied, looking at JT, “I know he does. It’s unfortunate. I tried to remove it from him when he was young and innocent, but he gave himself over to it willingly.”

“You tried to remove it?” JT asked. The detective had a good poker face, but Bright could hear the tightness in his voice. He was worried.

“Yeah,” Bright said, answering his tone more than his question, “He tried to remove it, without my mother’s permission.”

“An exorcism?” JT asked, tone even quieter.

“Right after my father was arrested,” Bright said. He closed his eyes, trying to keep the memory from coming.

The memory came anyway.

Malcolm sat in the precinct’s interrogation room. His mouth firmly closed, body shaking, as Detective Shannon asked him what he did to help his father. With the detective hissing in his ear, Malcolm Whitly felt smaller than he ever felt before in his life.

His father was a monster.

Malcolm heard those words from this detective standing in front of him. From the reporters outside his house. From the kids at school. From his mother when she thought he was not listening.

Malcolm heard the door open. He looked up to find not the kind Officer Arroyo as he hoped, but his grandparents’ priest. He tensed.

“Father Rinehart,” Shannon said, sounding just as distrustful. Malcolm felt suddenly united with the detective. He looked up, begging for help.

“The family wanted me to speak with the child,” Rinehart said.

“Why, did you get a law degree when you weren’t busy praying for my soul?” Shannon asked.

“A moment?” Rinehart said without reacting to the detective’s statement.

“If you have any sway over this kid,” Shannon said, “Then get him to talk.” He stepped outside, leaving Malcolm in the room alone with the priest.

“I sensed an evil in you from the moment we met,” Rinehart said. He put a hand on the table and leaned over, “What did they tell you about your father?”

“That he’s a monster,” Malcolm said, his voice small.

“He’s not a monster,” Father Rinehart said, “But he is possessed by one. We cannot talk here. If you want to understand what your father is, come to the church after dark.” Father Rinehart straightened, “And don’t slouch, child. Face this trial with grace.” The priest left without another word, left him to hours more questioning from Detective Shannon.

It was dark outside by the time Office Arroyo interrupted the interrogation.

“You can’t do this to a child,” he heard Gil say. “What’s wrong with you?”

Gil got him released to his mother, walking him out with a hand on his shoulder.

Malcolm told his mother he was fine. He said the detective asked him a few questions. He did not mention the priest at all.

“Bright?” JT’s voice drew him back to the present. The profiler blinked, trying to bring the moment into focus.

“Where is Father Rinehart?”

“Gone,” JT said slowly, then, “Where did you go?”

Bright gave a dark laugh, “You really are better off not knowing.”

“He tried to exorcise you?” JT said, his voice gentler than Bright ever heard it. Bright hated that, the pity. He looked away from the detective.

“He didn’t hurt me. I’m not broken.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Then, “What did he do?”

“He asked me to come to the church after dark, alone.”

“You went?”

Bright did not answer.

“So, your penchant for rushing into danger without backup is a 20-year bad habit?”  
Bright turned his head to glare at JT, but secretly he appreciated it. This was how JT treated him, not the walking on eggshells tone he used a moment before.

“What happened?” JT asked.

“I went,” Bright replied, “I found the church unlocked…”

Malcolm Whitly had never been in the church at night. The church, always so daunting, was something else entirely in darkness. Shadows played around every corner, creeping in on each side. He walked down the aisle, shaking as he went in. “Hello?” he called. The door to the basement opened. Malcolm felt fear run through him, bone-deep, but it did not stop him from going.

The draw of answers was stronger even than his childhood fears.

The memory became flashes from that point on. The basement. The single hanging light bulb. Markings on the floor. Candles. Someone threw water at him. A man’s voice chanted words in Latin.

Then there was Gil. There was shouting and strong arms pulling him close.

“Bright?” JT asked.

“He tried to exorcise me, but Gil was watching my house that night. I didn’t know that he had been sitting right outside during his free time. He was worried about people harassing us. When I snuck out, he followed. He saved me before Father Rinehart could do anything.”

“How is that bastard not in prison?” JT asked.

“Father Rinehart never laid a hand on me himself. He had his lackeys do the dirty work. He claimed he was not even present.”

“And that was enough?”

“He is an unbelievably well-connected man,” Bright replied, “Nothing has ever touched him. Besides, there are a lot of people who took his word as fact. I was just the messed up child of a serial killer.” Bright looked up at the ceiling, “Even my grandparents took his side.”

“What?”

“They believed him, they probably still do.” Bright closed his eyes, “They tried to convince my mother to give Father Rinehart the chance to _help_ me.”

“Even after what happened?”

Bright nodded. “Mother said she wouldn’t speak to them again until they apologized to me. I haven’t seen them since.”

“Bright…”

“After that, I stopped talking. Selective Mutism caused by trauma, I guess. I don’t know. It just felt like I couldn’t speak. Like this weight was on my chest all the time.”

He shivered, trying to flex out the tension from his fingers, the knuckles popping at the strain.

“Withdrawal symptoms?” JT asked.

“It shouldn’t be yet,” Bright said, but he didn’t _know_ that. He could not remember the last time he was without some type of medication. He heard JT struggling with the handcuffs that had him chained to the floor. Bright knew he should try to pay attention, try to focus on where they were, so he could get them out.

But his mind traveled back again. The pull of the memory was too strong.

Eleven-year-old Malcolm was curled up on the Arroyo’s couch, cuddled up to Gil’s side. His eyes were closed, but he was listening while they thought he was asleep.

“He’ll talk when he’s ready,” Jackie said.

“After what he’s been through,” Gil said, “With his father and then that bastard priest? I don’t know if I would talk again.”

“You would, and so will he,” Jackie replied, “The two of you are alike that way.”

“Stubborn?”  
“Oh yes, I’ve watched you two play Monopoly.”  
“Remind me to burn that game.”

“Ha,” Jackie gave a dry laugh, “But you’re both resilient too.” She reached over and stroked Malcolm’s hair.

Looking back now, he wondered if she did know he was awake.

“We’re not in the basement,” Bright said, opening his eyes and coming back from the memory.

“No, we are not,” JT agreed.

“Well, they’ve gotten smarter,” Bright said, “Of course, they’ve been plotting against the forces of darkness in my soul for twenty years so that makes sense.”

“You want to put some of that brainpower into thinking up a way out of here or are you just going to use it exclusively for sarcasm?”

“You assume I can’t do both?” Bright felt like whatever the priest gave him was finally gone. He pushed himself up, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Bright frowned at the cuffs on his hands. “That doors the only way in and out.”

“I figured that out even without a fancy psycho degree,” JT replied, “Give me something I can’t figure out on my own.”

“There were several of them. I doubt any of the people in my apartment were Father Rinehart. He’s spry for his age, but he’s not disappear and reappear fast.”

“So, we are looking for highly athletic people with a flair for drama?”

“Religious zealots. People who would do anything for Father Rinehart.”

“Great, so we’re not turning them to our side.”

“They believe I’m possessed. Demons are incredibly good at being charming. Anything we do to ingratiate ourselves to them is only going to further confirm we are the evil Rinehart has convinced them we are.” Bright frowned, “Well, he’s convinced them I am, at least. He said you could still save yourself.”

“So, they might not believe I’m evil?”

“They might not know what to make of you yet,” Bright said, “We could use that.”

The door opened again. It was one of the men in dark cloaks from before. He walked over to Malcolm.

“Hello, and who do we have the pleasure of addressing?” Bright asked.   
The man backhanded Bright.

“Hey!” JT screamed, his voice furious, “Don’t touch him.”  
“Do not speak to me, demon,” the man said to Bright. The man kneeled down beside him, grabbing Bright’s hair and jerking his head back. “Will you let go of this man?”

“I’m not possessed.”

“Your denial leaves us with no choice.”

Bright waited for whatever was next. A hit? Something worse?

The lights shut off.

“Bright?” JT’s voice asked from the dark.

“I’m here,” Bright replied.

When the light came back on, they were alone in the room, and the door was open.

“Wha…”

“Bright,” JT lifted his hands. They were still handcuffed together, but the chain was unlocked. Bright looked at his own hands to find the same thing. “It’s a trap.”

“Why? For what reason? We’re already trapped,” Bright replied. He pushed himself up awkwardly, nearly overbalancing without the use of his hands. He heard JT following at his shoulder. He glanced back, meeting the other man’s eyes and nodding.

They made their way up the stairs in unison, into the pitch black of whatever lay above.


End file.
